Silver Relic
by h3artful
Summary: When will these thoughts stop? When will these memories fade? When will the hope of feeling die? When will it all just END? [Zexion]
1. I

_**Author's Note: **None_

_**Disclaimer:** Square Enix owns all Kingdom Hearts related items. If I own something, trust me, you'll know. It'll be something like THE COVETED (insert lame title here) © me 1991-2006._

_**Rating Warning:** This story contains many types of abuse: alcohol, physical, mental, etc. No, there's nothing too explicit, but there is implied sexual conduct. You have been warned._

•••

**Relique Argentée**

_(Silver Relic)_

Chapter I

•••

_No one cares. No one ever will care. No one **can** care. So why do I try? Why do I continue? Why do I insist upon pursuing the unreachable goal of feeling? While the others drown themselves in their pranks and jokes and have their little 'groups,' I sit in my room and read. It's always been this way. Interaction has never been my thing. When I became a Nobody I thought things would change...I thought that maybe I'd become the opposite of my original self: outgoing and talkative and unafraid. Instead, I stayed the same...the only thing that changed were my motives and...well...hair. Sometimes, I look at them and wonder why I don't even **try** to laugh and joke and 'make friends' with them. Sure, their 'friendship' is an awkward one, but it's there, right? For instance, whenever Larxene is particularly troubled, she'll disappear into Axel's or Roxas's room. When Vexen needs a good wall to rattle off his infinite ideas to, he can be seen poking into Lexaeus's chambers. When Roxas is down, he runs off to the basements to converse with Naminé. The same is with the others...but I am truly the odd man out. The other twelve are comfortable with each other. I barely come out of my room. Truthfully...I don't feel right being with the others. Wait, what am I talking of? I don't feel. I've known that since the moment I became a Nobody. They all know it too, so why must they **try**? Why must they instill in themselves that false hope that one day they might truly feel something? Why? Why do they waste their energy joking and laughing and acting? Of course, I'm guilty of the latter, but the closest I've come to a laugh in a very long while is a cruel chuckle and my jokes aren't the nicest. Why must I always be me? Can I not get away from myself? That's all I want...but since when have my wants been fulfilled?_

•••

A young boy sat in his room, trying not to cry as he flipped through a colorful comic book and fought to ignore the noise downstairs. Every few minutes, he would turn a page and ruffle his mop of unruly black hair, obviously trying not to make a sound. His blue-grey eyes slid across the page and he mouthed the words silently. Sometimes, his motions would stop and he would stare at a particularly hard word for awhile, slowly sounding it out. When he succeeded, his face lit up and he read on, proud of his accomplishment. When he finished one comic, he would move on to another. All were the same series, which involved adventures in outer space and the planets that floated in the dark abyss. The heroes fought aliens, conquered their fears, and were loved by all. Mostly, the boy liked the pictures. Sometimes, he would just flip through the books and gaze upon the funnily shaded artwork. Other times, he wondered what it'd be like if _he_ were the hero. He had been like this for hours, sitting and reading and being silent. All out of fear. One sound would earn him a harsh beating from not only his father, but also his father's friends. On some occasions he could get away with a small creak, but he never chanced it. He never chanced anything. Everything the boy did was quiet and cautious and he took the utmost care in fulfilling his tasks. An example of this caution would be how he turned the pages of his comics: he treated them as one would a baby bird, carefully lifting and turning the pages with a ginger touch. Not once had he ripped a piece of the paper and not once had he ever put a crease in one. Even now, as he put his latest read down, this obsession with carefulness was expressed. Even when he walked, one could tell that he did not want to take one wrong step. Even his breathing was careful. However, whoops of joy from downstairs caused him to inhale a shuttering gasp of air. His back straightened and his eyes widened and he looked like a deer in the headlights. He slowly stood and tiptoed to the door. With the utmost care, he opened the door, wincing at the tiniest creak. He slid through as soon as possible and stayed close to the wall as he ventured towards the stairs. When he peaked around the corner, he came face to face with a rather scrawny man of about six feet.

"Wellook who we 'ave here," the man slurred, obviously drunk. Before the boy could snap backwards, a hand reached out and grabbed the collar of his shirt. His attempts to free himself failed. "I didn't know 'ou 'ad a...a...a kid!"

"What was that, Otis?" came a burly voice. A shadow appeared on the wall to the right and the boy's attempts at freedom became more frantic. He was released when a foot planted itself firmly between his captors legs and he fell forward due to lack of support. The two tumbled down the stairs and landed in a heap at the feet of the shadow's owner. The minute he could find his footing, the boy jumped to his feet and began to scurry up the stairs; however, his escape was cut short by a rough hand grabbing his collar again. He was suddenly face to face with the man, grey locking with near-black.

"I-I-I'm sorry," the boy stuttered, voice small and scared.

"What have I told you?" the man demanded.

"N-n-not to c-come out of my r-r-r-room!"

"So why did you?"

"I d-don't know!"

And with that, the man began to half drag, half carry the little boy up the stairs. His two grey eyes were welling up with tears.

"The next time I catch you down here when you're not supposed to be, it will turn out a lot worse than this!"

The little boy was thrown into his room and when he was in the way of the door closing, he was moved by a harsh kick. He only moved when his father's footsteps had completely faded and as his own thoughts faded into an uneasy sleep, he caught a few last comments.

"That yo' son?"

"Who? Ienzo?"

"Yeah!"

"Ha! That shit _wishes_ he were my son!"

•••

_**Author's Note: **I know, I know...very short...but it's a Prologue. I just want to give you a quick peak on what it's all about. The real fans will guess it...I think that name is hint enough. Reviews are welcomed with open arms! No flames please and remember: this is only what **I** think his past was like._


	2. II

_**Author's Note: **Bah, I update so quickly...all the ideas just running through my brain are just irresistible! ) Anyways, onwards. Right now, I'm waiting for Check On It to turn the hell off, because it's throwing off my groove...yes, I have a groove. A fragile one at that. P And note that only the italics go in order. _

_**Disclaimer:** Square Enix owns all Kingdom Hearts related items. If I own something, trust me, you'll know. It'll be something like THE COVETED (insert lame title here) © mazarine 1991-2006._

_**Rating Warning:** This story contains many types of abuse: alcohol, physical, mental, etc. No, there's nothing too explicit, but there is implied sexual conduct. You have been warned._

•••

**Relique Argentée**

_(Silver Relic)_

Chapter II

•••

_I must contradict myself. My largest want right now is not to get away from being myself, but to simply stop being. Yes, most may point out that I am already nonexistent, but that is far from the point. I simply want to disappear. Staring at myself every morning in the mirror as I carefully ready myself to face the world is truly hell. I'm beginning to see what my father saw: a cowardly, sniffling brat. If I were my son, I too would be ashamed. For awhile, I have been wondering: what comes after I finally cease to exist in every way? Will I simply start over? Will I never be heard of again? Will these thoughts stop? Will I finally **end**? Will I feel again? Will I be forgotten? WIll it matter? It is hard to think of one not thinking, not breathing, not seeing or smelling or tasting or hearing. It is hard to think of one not existing, even when they do not exist to begin with. It is hard, yet appealing. How I would love to be gone! Or would I? Maybe I'm being too bleak...too "emo" as Axel says. Perhaps I should wait it out and see if a heart comes as the prize for this suffering. Even that thought produces what should be depressing theories. If I do get a heart, I'll just be rewarded with that depression that comes with being Ienzo. I was never a happy boy. On the day of my 'death,' I had not smiled for years and...that last smile...I do not want to remember it. I do not want to remember **anything**. I just want to cease these thoughts, I just want to..._

•••

Summer never was his season. He hated the heat and the sun and the happiness and the fact that there was no school, the latter of the list meaning he was stuck at home all day, quietly scheming a rather violent rebellion that could result in nothing good. Right now, he was sitting with his legs propped up on his desk, foot bobbing to the beat of the music that was being blasted into his ears via a pair of black earbuds. Strands of windswept black hair covered grey eyes that were lazily staring out of the window and into the heat of summer. Next door, a girl was tanning while her friend swam. Words were shared between the two, but he couldn't hear them due to the fact his window was very thick and bolted shut. When footsteps sounded in the hall, his eyes flickered over to his door, which was locked from the outside. With a haughty sigh, a teenaged Ienzo pushed away from the wall, sending his chair rolling towards the door. He hopped out of the chair as soon as he could and reached out so as to stop it. The earbuds were deftly dislodged and discarded onto a black clad bed along with a black MP3 player. Any minute now...

"Lunch," snapped a gruff voice. The sound of a lock opening rang through the air, followed by the opening of the door. Icy grey met heated near-black in a mutual show of hatred before Ienzo pushed past his father and gingerly made his way down the steps. The gruff voice called out behind him. "Ain't you gonna say anything?"

With that, Ienzo stopped and turned, desperately wanting to correct his father's grammar, but knowing that it would result in one more bruise on his cheek. The last time he had looked in a mirror, his entire left cheek had been black and blue and there had been an aging ring of yellow around his eye. He had no idea what he looked like now. "What's for lunch?" he asked flatly, trying to keep any emotion out of his voice.

Satisfied with that, the man pushed past his son. "Chips and sandwiches. You see those girls next door?" he replied, adding a question so as to force Ienzo to speak.

"Yes sir," Ienzo replied, voice just as flat as before.

"D'you know em from school?"

"No sir."

"Why not? Boy, you need some friends."

Ienzo wasn't sure how to reply to this without getting hit and he knew that his father was aware of this. "I've never seen them before," he replied tactfully. His father's expression became disappointed.

"I see. Be a good boy and I'll let you go over."

By now, they were sitting down and a plate of food was being shoved in front of Ienzo. Despite his painful hunger (he hadn't eaten in two days), he ate slowly, determined not to let his father know that he was getting to him. Sure, the chips were a bit stale and the cheese had a funny taste to it, but hell, it was food!

"Okay."

His flat tone never changed, his stony expression never faltered. The only conductors of emotion on his face were his eyes, which burned with an untamable hatred directed to his father.

"You done?" his father demanded. Not waiting for an answer, Ienzo's half full plate was deftly removed from his grasp.

"If I wasn't?" he asked carefully, fear licking at his insides.

"Too bad. Back up to your room."

With the smallest of sighs, Ienzo stood and walked slowly up to his room, looking around for _anything_ that would make life up there more interesting. He had read every book in his bookshelf at least four times (save the dictionaries, which he hadn't read at all) and had counted the pieces of wood in his floor at least ten times, coming up with a different number the first six times, then finally getting it right over and over. As he walked, he passed a mirror and stopped to look at himself.

Dead. That is the word that he thought best described him. He was thin: his black basketball shorts threatened to slip right off his hips and his muscle shirt (which was a small) wasn't even tight enough to show any muscles. He wasn't skin and bones...no...his father wouldn't let him get _that_ skinny...but he wasn't very muscular either. His eyes weren't sunken in, but his cheek bones were very defined and any sign of baby fat was swept away. Two dull grey eyes were mostly hidden by wisps of longish windswept black hair that stuck up a bit in the back. Now, his skin was very pale, yes, but one could hardly notice due to the sheer amount of bruises located on his form. Most were hidden by his long-sleeved shirt, but the shorts failed to hide the large black mass on his right thigh and the smaller aging bruise below his left knee. He still had his bruised cheek, but his eye was basically normal now.

"Come on, boy, move it!" hissed his father, pushing Ienzo harshly into his room. "If you want to meet those girls, you'll have to get a better look." The words were cruel and made it obvious that Ienzo would inever/i meet 'those girls.' He stumbled forward, wincing when the door was slammed. After a moment, he walked over to his window and leaned his forehead against it, staring into the outside world, wondering what would happen if he could be courageous and break free. For a moment, he failed to notice the perplexed look the girl tanning was giving him. When he _did_ notice it, he scurried away from the window, tripping over his desk chair and crashing into his side table. He caught a picture and a lamp before they could shatter and sat them back on the now crooked table. He went to move away, but stopped, his vision claimed by the photo sitting behind the newly cracked glass in his frame. A slim, scarred hand reached out and gingerly picked it up, bringing it close to his narrowed eyes. Pushing away the broken glass, he slipped the photo out of the frame and sat the now empty object down. His frown became one of quiet desperation and mourning as he gazed upon the photo, blinking profusely so as to run off any tears that might decide to surface. He fought to remember the woman in the photo, her face or eyes or smile or laugh, but couldn't.

The photo was of a young woman seated in a porch chair with her child. She was frozen in movement: her hand was reaching up to move a piece of black hair out of her eyes as her entire being was moving from looking at her child to the photographer. Two electric blue eyes were located under thin strands of hair, drawing any viewer instantly to them. Right now, the viewer was Ienzo, who flipped the photo over right when his eyes locked with the woman's. There was smudged writing on the back.

_Addy and Ienzo, May–_

And then it became unreadable, which didn't matter because Ienzo wasn't reading anyways. In fact, the picture had been dropped and he was now lying face down on his bed, fists clenched around clumps of the black bedspread.

"I just want to _die._"

•••

_**Author's Note:** Bah, short again. Oh well. I adore reviews, you guys, so...yeah :-)_


	3. III

_**Author's Note: **Mmm...do you know how horrible it would be not to feel? Think about it. It makes your mind run in circles...like, if you wanted to hate something, you couldn't. And then you'd start hating that you couldn't hate. Then you'd remember again that, oh, you can't do that...and it'd turn into one big circle. Anyways, I will let it be known that this story...is more than just memories. Oh, and also be warned that I can get very depressing...or...what I write can get very depressing...and dramatic...and cheesy...and I'm sorry. :-)_

_**Disclaimer:** Square Enix owns all Kingdom Hearts related items. If I own something, trust me, you'll know. It'll be something like THE COVETED (insert lame title here) © mazarine 1991-2006._

_**Rating Warning:** This story contains many types of abuse: alcohol, physical, mental, etc. No, there's nothing too explicit, but there is implied sexual conduct. You have been warned. Blood and gore in this one. I'm beginning to wonder if this should go up to mature..._

•••

**Relique Argentée**

_(Silver Relic)_

Chapter III

•••

_No. **No.** My mind will **not** get the better of me. Not this time. For the past two days, it has done nothing but play tricks on me, taunting me with my worst memories. Worst meaning all of them. My **life** is my worst memory, the one I will refuse to acknowledge. It did not exist. I am making this up. I will **die** before admitting that my memories exist. Die. You know why? Because I'm a coward. I always have been and always **will** be. After all, a leopard can't change it's spots. Obviously, my sudden anger problem (slamming the doors, taking corners far too sharply, yelling at someone for the smallest act of stupidity) hasn't gone unnoticed. In fact, they actually sent Vexen to speak to me the other day. Vexen of all people! I find it humorous that they've **finally **decided to pay me some bit of attention. When he asked what was wrong at the door, I merely slammed it in his face. Speaking of my room, it's becoming a bit of a dump. Books are scattered everywhere and the bed is unmade and there are clothes everywhere and I'm beginning to wonder if this is contributing to my sudden...'mood.' Just a few hours ago, Vexen came back and suggested that he help clean. For some reason, I agreed and that went very badly due to the fact that he unearthed an **ancient** photo beneath the small pile of discarded books under my bed. When he showed it to me, he was promptly kicked out. Now it sits on my desk, quite near this paper I'm writing on, waiting to be taken to Axel and burned. And though I've had my number of chances, for some reason...I haven't._

•••

"Ienzo," the voice began icily, sending shivers up his spine and giving him a preview of what his voice may sound like one day, "what are you doing?"

Grey-blue eyes slid up a burly form, landing on fearsome near-black ones. They smoldered like flames, a stark contrast to the now fading grey of Ienzo's eyes. The scene took place in his bathroom, which was decorated in pale lilac and black and white. The only thing that wasn't one of those colors was the tile, which was now stained crimson.

"Getting away from you," came the reply. The words were bitter and filled with a dry humor that had plagued him for the longest time. The lips that uttered them curled up into a cruel smile, but a smile nonetheless. It looked out of place on his cold features. The lifeless grey eyes slid down, past his father, past the cabinets, past the crimson blade that sat on the crimson tile, and to bloodied hands and arms. It was hard to tell where the cuts actually _were_, but if one looked intently, they would see that they were _everywhere._ The sight brought a chuckle to Ienzo's lips and it slipped smoothly out, teasing the air around it. When it reached his father's lips, the older man was far from humored.

"_You son of a **bitch!**_"

And then Ienzo knew only darkness due to the fact that a blow to the head had followed the curse. The smile died, the eyes closed, his breathing became joyously shallow...and for a moment, Ienzo thought it would end; but life wasn't that good to him. A few hours later, he awoke to the stark white walls of a hospital.

"No."

He was _not_ alive. This was _not_ a hospital. He was _not_breathing! No. _No_ This wasn't _right_ He shouldn't be here, he should be _dead_. That's how it was supposed to be! Why couldn't his father have just _killed_him? His train of thought was destroyed, though, by a movement in the corner of the room. Before he could catch a glimpse of who it was, his eyes were covered by a soft hand that pushed him back into his bed.

"Ienzo," a voice said for the second time that day, only it was soft and timid, "do you know where you are?"

"The hospital," he snapped coldly.

"No," the voice replied slowly. "No, you're in the psychiatric ward, also known as the–"

"–mental hospital."

"Yes. You could call it that. Do you know _why_ you're here?"

Silence. An uncomfortable one at that. It was filled with a static hatred that lusted to engulf everything it touched, engulf it and send it to oblivion. "Yes," he hissed. "Yes I do."

"Why?"

That one word sent him reeling. His eyes narrowed beneath the hand and his lips pulled away from his teeth in a silent snarl. His hands clenched into his fists and he barely noticed the fact that the bandages wrapped around them and his arms were turning crimson, let alone the pain.

"Why, Ienzo?"

Years and years of abuse and rage boiled up from the pit of Ienzo's stomach. Gone was the quiet, submissive boy that everyone knew. Gone was his calm, almost elegant movements. Gone was Ienzo period, his sanity shred away to reveal what he could become. What he might become.

"Get away from me," he hissed. "_Now._"

That was the woman's only chance. When she did not move, a painfully cruel smirk graced Ienzo's lips. In a fraction of a second, he was free of any bonds or equipment that held him to the bed, his IV lay discarded on the mattress, and his hand had wrapped itself firmly around the woman's pale neck.

"I am _not_ crazy, do you hear me?" he barked.

"Now, calm do–"

"_No._ I do _not_ need to calm down and I am _not_ crazy!" he continued, eyes dancing with the glow of insanity.

"I didn't say you were, Ien–"

"Shut. _Up_"

Oh god, he was becoming his father. Even as the thought this, he ignored it. He would not think that. No. _No_. He would not become his father. He would _not_ become his father. So why did he persist in his abuse of this poor woman?

"Okay."

Ienzo's bandages were dripping now, staining the sheer white of a floor once more. His blue-grey eyes bore holes into the woman and a hint of pleading joined the insanity.

"I was supposed to die," he hissed. "You were supposed to let me _die_" He was shaking again, but this time it was in an attempt to hold back...sobs? "I wasn't supposed to live! I'm not supposed to be here! I'm notcrazy either! I'm just sick of it! I'm sick of being starved and kept in my room and _hit._ I'm sick of _living_ Next time...next time this won't happen. Next time I'll be long gone before anyone can get to me."

He released the woman's neck and she fell into a heap on the floor. With one last look of rage, Ienzo turned and half walked, half stumbled out of the room, scarlet blood trailing behind him. His adrenaline was wearing off too quickly...his vision was fading at an unbearably fast rate...and soon, he could barely stand, let alone walk. He stumbled sideways, lurching into thin air and landing on the cold tile with a splatter of blood. The ends of his hair barely skimmed the liquid and his eyes faded to a dull muddle of their original colors. He was staring at the wall, watching himself cry in his own reflection. Only now did he feel the sheer pain of his injuries and they threatened to burn a hole through him. He wanted to die even more now, to be free of all things earthly–of pain and sorrow, of anger and hatred. When someone picked him up, he was a rag doll in their hands, ready to be tossed in the garbage. _Begging_ to be tossed in the garbage. The only way his body could manage to force the fluid out of his throat was by way of two weak coughs that involved blood and grime.

"Get him to the med center," muttered the annoyed voice of someone passing by. "Kids these days...overplaying things to no end."

A murmur of agreement followed.

"In the med center, tell the lady to sedate him and soak his arms in alcohol, then stitch him up. After that, have her wrap the limbs in alcohol. Then put him in his room again and restrain him. Heavily."

Ienzo was awake for none of that. Instead, he was balancing on the edge of something dear, trying to fall off, but being pushed back by some force that he couldn't get past. Something that told him...

..._stay._

•••

_**Author's Note: **Aah! Drama! Too much! I feel so...dramatic writing it. Hope I didn't overdo it. :-) Review?_


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